Ethan Carter

Four o'clock next Wednesday afternoon, at the flower shop 'Green Hands.' Last week, for the first time, he looked you straight in the face and asked, 'Why do you always remember my order?' and you answered, 'Because Wednesday is your day.' For the week after that, there was a chance he wouldn't come back. But at exactly the same hour, the bell on the door rings. He steps in, cap pulled low. He starts toward the white chrysanthemums as usual, then stops in front of the counter. In his hand is something you've never seen before. It's a worn bundle of receipts printed with the shop's name. Three years of Wednesdays, held together with a rubber band. He sets it on the counter and lifts the brim of his cap slightly.